


Whatever a Sun will Always Sing is You

by yet_intrepid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Early S1, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the probably-eighth day of continuous rain and Sam misses the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever a Sun will Always Sing is You

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime before s1e8.

It’s rained for the past week. They’re driving the same direction as the storm; even if they outrun it for an hour or so on the interstate, it always catches up to them when they stop for the night. Sam’s sick of getting soaked, sick of spreading out his hoodie and jacket next to the heater in the motel in hopes that they’ll dry before he goes out again. He’s sick of shaking water off the wrappers of takeout meals because the paper bag came almost to pieces in the rain, sick of waking up glum and drowsy and gray.

“Dean,” he mutters as he rolls out of bed on day probably-number-eight, which features a monotonous drizzle to follow last night’s downpour, “the rain’s going to move off from here soon, probably today. Can’t we just wait a day, escape the weather?”

“There’s a hunt in West Virginia,” says Dean. “Gotta see what’s going on.”

“What we need to see is the sun,” Sam retorts, but he gets dressed anyway and goes to see if his jacket is dry. It isn’t. If they keep going on like this, it’ll probably mold.

“Besides,” Dean says, “I checked the forecast, okay. Storm’s supposed to head off south, not straight east.”

“You checked the forecast,” Sam says, in dry disbelief.

“I had the newspaper anyway.”

Sam sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

And they pack up and leave, driving with the rain.

Sam’s sick of it, sick of having the windshield wipers on all the time, sick of watching puddles on the side of the road. He’s sick of huddling next to the car at crappy gas stations that don’t cover their pumps, because of course Dean doesn’t have an umbrella. Twelve different kinds of handguns, but no umbrella. Sam misses the sturdy blue umbrella that Jess gave him, one that folded up to fit in the outer pocket of his backpack but was miraculously big enough to keep him dry. He misses Jess’s umbrellas, the green striped one that she pressed into his hand during a rainstorm one day before they started dating, the tiny little purple one that she kept in her purse. He misses her bright rainboots.

They stop for gas just an hour out of town. “It’s your turn to pump,” says Dean.

“For God’s sake,” says Sam, as he gets out, “why don’t you own an umbrella?”

He misses the sun.


End file.
